


And I Love Her

by Tanista



Series: Science and Romance [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Inspired by Fanfiction, Inspired by Music, John Plays the Guitar, PTSD Music Therapy, Science and Romance, Sherlock Holmes and Science, Sherlock's Violin, Wedding Reception, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 22:44:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7820161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanista/pseuds/Tanista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John serenade their respective wives in a very special way at a wedding reception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Love Her

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Best Man: Losing John Watson](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2611508) by [Emma_Lynch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_Lynch/pseuds/Emma_Lynch). 



> Another story inspired by music! I'm not the only one to write based on the Beatles song that shares the title above (see the lovely tale "Bright are the stars that shine" by OhAine), but mine is also inspired by a nice RL instrumental rendition by Miles Stiebel (you can hear it on YouTube, from the album No Hassle Miles). Close your eyes and imagine our favorite Detecting Duo performing this.
> 
> This story is also inspired by the excellent "The Best Man: Losing John Watson" by Emma_Lynch, from one of my favorite Sherlock fanfic series. Beautiful series, beautiful story, beautiful wedding.

“John Hamish Watson, if you came up with this ridiculous idea just to embarrass me in front of everyone present tonight I swear I will murder you and make sure no one ever discovers your corpse.”

“Oh do be quiet, Sherlock. You came to me just three days ago, panicking--”

“I was not panicking. I have _never_ panicked before in my life and have no intention of ever doing so. I was merely strongly expressing concern--”

“Because you'd noticed people giving you and Molly wedding gifts and quite forgot to purchase one yourself--”

“A tedious custom. Molly and I already have everything we could possibly need at Baker Street. Why do people feel they must give us things simply because we've decided to make our permanent state of conjugal cohabitation official? Dull.”

“Sherlock, you asked me for advice and I gave it. To be honest, I was surprised when you took it seriously.” John hefted the instrument case in his left hand, wincing briefly as the weight pulled on his shoulder wound. Setting it down on a chair he opened the case and took the guitar out, sitting down on a second nearby chair to tune the strings.

Inspired by treatment for veterans in America, his therapist had suggested taking up an instrument to help with his lingering PTSD. At first John was skeptical since his family had never been big on music lessons growing up. It turned out, however, that he was as good at the guitar as he was at shooting and blogging- maybe not professional quality, but not too bloody bad either. Mary was even impressed, and for someone who was multi-talented in her own right- as a former assassin, nurse, mother of their child and producer of delicious baked goods- that was saying something.

Sherlock pulled out the Stradivarius, caressing the fine wood, inspecting it for any damage from the last time he'd played. “Excellent condition, impeccable craftsmanship as always.” He tightened the pegs a minute fraction, then lifted the bow, playing an arpeggio. “Excellent sound as well, though perhaps a trifle off in the higher register due to the damp Spring weather. Not that anyone here today- including those so-called artists in the band- will notice. I _cannot_ believe Molly will enjoy hearing me serenade her with something by a group called the Beat-Toads--”

“That's the _Beatles_ ,” John corrected absently, strumming a few experimental chords of his own, “and while not a current group by any means their songs are still considered rock 'n' roll classics.”

“Hmm. Still an incomprehensible name,” the detective sniffed. “If they're going to call themselves after the mundane term for the insect order _Coleoptera_ , why deliberately misspell it? It's got two E's, not E-A. The education system in Liverpool must be very poor indeed.”

The doctor rolled his eyes. His friend had never understood any other genre of music but classical; to enlighten him otherwise was an exercise in futility. _No space in the Mind Palace for anything more current than 1850, I reckon._ John played the first few measures of his part, then nodded. “Right.” He leaned the guitar against the case before standing up, straightening the waistcoat and jacket of his morning coat. “Come on, Sherlock. Our audience awaits.”

They entered the ballroom with instruments in hand, the wedding reception still in full swing. Friends, colleagues and family members- detectives of Scotland Yard dancing _en masse_ in front of the band (Lestrade in particular seemed to be attracting attention from the ladies with his audacious moves), staff of St. Bart's milling around the wedding cake (strawberries and bees decorating three tiers of white-frosted chocolate), Wiggins and other select representatives of the Homeless Network dressed in rented finery and carefully minding their manners, the combined Holmes and Watson clans (no members of Molly's family remaining, alas) gathered around the main table- were all in attendance, eagerly awaiting the return of the Groom and his Best Man.

* * * *

To anyone else it was pure chaos, but to the trained eye of a Consulting Detective it was an understood chaos, a controllable chaos. These were people Sherlock understood and for the most part accepted, known quantities with a comfortable margin of error.

There were also, however, three individuals present impossible to fathom, despite persistent applications of his not-inconsiderable talents to the case: Himself. His new wife Dr. Molly Hooper-Holmes. And their unborn child of three months, Foetus- a more suitable first name forthcoming with determined gender- Holmes.

How he and Molly came to fall in love with each other- much less collaborate carnally to produce another potential genius son or daughter- still remained a mystery to Sherlock. They were so opposite in so many ways and yet possessed a strong attraction to each other. As in physics, so in romance? Or perhaps a divine intervention, a miracle as Molly half believed?

It was vexing to have such a conundrum lingering in his Mind Palace unsolved. Molly would doubtless assist in providing unique input once they embarked on their sex holiday. The sensory experiments they would perform on each other then...

Sherlock felt a sharp elbow dig into his side, distracting him from his musings. He glared down at his shorter companion, annoyed, then at the band leader on the dais staring at them expectantly. “Come on, Sherlock,” said John. “It's time. You don't want to disappoint Molly, now do you?”

“Don't I? This whole 'wedding' thing is inconvenient, tedious and decidedly too full of sentiment for my liking. All I wanted was a short civil ceremony at the flat on Baker Street, John. How this monstrosity came about, I'll never understand.”

Standing now up on the dais, John was finally at a level to look the detective straight in the eye, who found himself flinching at the dangerous glint showing within the dark blue eyes. “Sherlock, this is your wedding day. It's more than a bit not good to be such a git on a day like this. Now come up here and join me in serenading our respective wives.”

He sighed heavily. “Oh, very well. The things I do for sentiment.”

* * * *

To her dying day the one thing Molly Hooper-Holmes (M.D., PhD. and mother-to-be) would never forget about the wedding was the sight of her husband playing the violin, with John on guitar and the band accompanying him.

In public. At their wedding reception in front of friends and family. And one of her most favorite classic Beatles songs in a sort of smooth jazzy tempo, to boot.

For the life of her Molly couldn't remember having any discussions with Sherlock about music. She knew of his devotion to classical works when practicing- except for his seasonal rendition of Christmas carols, always a treat- but believed he had no real interest in any other genre. And John! Who knew he could play the guitar so well? Maybe Mary, but not her.

Clearly, she didn't know them as well as she thought she did, especially Sherlock. That, she mused, would have to be rectified during their honeymoon. The intense- and most physically exhaustive- examinations they could conduct on each other then...

“Aren't they fantastic?” Mary whispered in her ear, interrupting her lascivious thoughts. “They should take this act on the road. Holmes, Watson and the Baker Street Irregulars!” She giggled at her own joke, obviously more than a little drunk on the fine champagne that was Mycroft's contribution to the wedding- along with providing for their honeymoon at an undisclosed but decidedly luxurious tropical location...

“I think it's sweet. You know he's not one to show sentiment in public--”

“Or even in private, really.”

Molly let the comment pass. It was her best-kept secret that Sherlock- the cool, calculating Consulting Detective- did indeed display sentiment. Passionately. Fiercely, even. But only to her.

The private life of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper- and now including the Holmes child-to-be- was just that. Private. They were more than happy to keep it that way.

* * * *

Wild applause for their joint performance- gratifying to John, perplexing to Sherlock- followed them as they set their instruments down and stepped off the dais. They were joined in the center of the dance floor by the Bride and her Matron of Honor.

“So, do you think I could've stood in for Paul?” John quipped as his arms slid around Mary.

She laughed. “Maybe Ringo.”

He frowned. “But Ringo played the drums. Didn't he?”

“Well, perhaps George then. He played guitar...” The Watsons disappeared, dancing together through the crowd of people.

Sherlock frowned at Molly. “Do you know what they were talking about? I haven't a clue.”

She laughed softly. “Nothing you need worry about, darling.” His arms wrapped around her petite form and she sighed happily as they danced together, resting her head against his chest. “Thank you for the serenade. It was beautiful. How did you know that was one of my favorite songs?”

'You know my methods. By observation, particularly of the playlists on your mp3 player whenever you accidentally leave it running on a counter at St. Bart's.” He smirked. “Really Molly, how else would I know?”

She groaned softly into the white silk of his shirt. “You tosser,” she muttered, the insult carrying no heat. “I should've known. You never stop observing, do you?”

Sherlock stopped, looking down at his bride seriously. “I don't,” he said softly. “Except when we're together like this. Then nothing matters except for you. And it's true, by the way.”

“What is?”

“What the song says, even if it is sentimental. I do love you,” bending down to meet her lips. Their arms tightened around each other as the kiss deepened, full of barely-restrained passion.

When they finally released each other he cupped her cheek in his long, capable fingers, staring at her intently. “Hmm. Flushed skin, increased heart rate, dilated pupils. If I didn't know any better, Dr. Hooper, I'd say you were sexually aroused.”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes.” Molly reached under his jacket to caress the wiry muscle of his back. “How well you know me. And I do believe you're also showing the same signs of arousal. Shall we investigate this further in private?”

“Indeed. This is a case that merits further- and very detailed- investigation,” kiss, “observation,” kiss, “and experimentation. How convenient my brother has secured a suite for us tonight in this very hotel before we leave on our sex holiday. Come then, the game is on!” With that the detective swept the pathologist into his arms, leading her swiftly away from the cheering crowd of well-wishers.

\--End--

 


End file.
